


When the hands have shaken and the kisses flow

by WeeSweetieMice



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-24
Updated: 2014-10-24
Packaged: 2018-02-22 11:42:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2506526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeeSweetieMice/pseuds/WeeSweetieMice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Malcolm found out, you gotta have a dream. If you don't have a dream, how you gonna have a dream come true?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. And that's the reason why I seem so far away today

**Author's Note:**

> My first ever attempt at fanfic. I ran out of Jamie/Malcolm stories to read and so I had to make up my own. I don't think it's finished yet but it's a start.  
> Titles are from Dougie MacClean's "Caledonia". Well, of course...

Malcolm Tucker had a dream. Not one of those Martin Luther King-type visions with scarlet standards waving high over every constituency in the country, but a literal, actual dream. He woke to a grey morning forcing its way through the curtains with his head full of Jamie MacDonald. It wasn't the first time Malcolm had dreamt about a co-worker. And it wasn't the first time he had one of _those_ dreams about a co-worker. Two months ago he'd dreamt about Geoff Holhurst giving him a blowjob. He suspected this heinous subconscious betrayal was due to the amount of times he'd thought "head" whenever he encountered the tiny-skulled fucker. It had been disconcerting to Malcolm just how much, upon waking, he had been enjoying Geoff's dream ministrations but within seconds - no, nanoseconds - of seeing the man himself in the flesh, every single warm-blooded inappropriate thought had run screaming from Malcolm's body faster than you could say "boak".

As with Geoff, thought Malcolm, so with Jamie. It was one thing to imagine the hot, sweat-sheened skin of a younger, disarmingly passionate colleague (Malcolm concluded that the dream-passion was related to Jamie's general enthusiastic and inflamed approach to, well, everything) but he'd actually _met_ Jamie. And Jamie was more terrier than man: small, very shouty, and extremely fucking vicious. Real-life Jamie did not embody any of the impressively erotic and sensual tendencies that dream-Jamie possessed in abundance. Thus, Malcolm arrived at work with the dream somewhat pleasantly toying with his thoughts until he saw Jamie. Which he did. And promptly got the shock of his life when the dream did not in any way seem unnatural.

Jamie, coffee cup in hand and lounging on the sofa in Malcolm's office, was lamenting the closure of Glasgow zoo."I had the girls this weekend and I took them to Regent's Park but it's not the same. What's wi' your face?"

Malcolm, thoughts whirring as he processed the fact that he seemed to have developed a highly inappropriate and incredibly intense crush on the deputy of the Caledonian Mafia, attempted to maintain composure. "Nothing wrong with my face. It's just a face."

"Oh, okay, okay." Jamie looked unconvinced. "Anyway, when we were weans a zoo was a zoo, y'know?

Malcolm looked at him steadily and tried to forget the part of the dream where Jamie had been working the buttons on Malcolm's shirt, fingers flitting between the gaps of the fabric to touch him, gazing up with eyes the colour of- yes, those fucking eyes. The same ones staring at him now. He decided it was prudent to remain sitting behind his desk. He also decided that it might be wise to be alone long enough to compose both body and thoughts.

"Speaking of zoos, have you been over to Transport yet this morning? Because the minister probably needs reminding that the press are going to relish the fact that his son has his second lot of points for speeding."

Jamie swung himself onto his feet with a lopsided grin of pure glee. "I am ON it! My fist can go from 0 to 60 in less than three seconds. Never mind his roadrunner kid, let's see how quickly Mr Transport moves when I swing for him."

Malcolm watched him swagger to the door and decided there and then that Jamie was the most fucking interesting thing to happen to his libido in years.

 

Now that Malcolm had accepted that he had a crush on a colleague he formed a plan of action. His plan was simple: don't ever let on that there is ever, EVER, any kind of crush. It wasn't that he was denying it. In fact, he was rather enjoying it. Jamie would appear in his office, or in the street, or by his side, those eyes looking at Malcolm with open, guileless friendship, and Malcolm would feel a lurch in his stomach at just how ridiculously attractive he found this man. Then Jamie would begin his incredibly inventive and highly effective threats and Malcolm would delight in the sheer untrammelled joy of an unleashed wolf in the corridors of power. And no one - NO ONE - could ever be allowed to know this and live.

Jamie was interesting. Fun and interesting. Fuckable, fun and interesting. Malcolm rarely met anyone who was all three; even his wife had only managed the first and last. Malcolm, warming to the idea of brightening his worklife with some imaginative scenarios, took the opportunity to enjoy a bit of perving. After all, what harm was there in thinking about his fingers in those curls, or his hand sliding down that back? (Malcolm felt a slight twinge of guilt about eyeing up Jamie's arse, mostly because he prided himself on the anti-harassment policy he himself had put in place when they'd taken over from the Opposition.)

Knowing that this crush was safe - that it never could and never would go anywhere - allowed Malcolm some respite from the blizzards of shit that blew into his agenda every day. Outwardly, his dealings with Jamie were mostly as they had always been. Malcolm Tucker had missed his calling as a poker player. On occasion, though, he struggled to contain things. The night he overheard Frankie say that Jamie had "gone aff wi' some bird" he spent a furious hour trying to find out if it was somebody he could a) fire or b) kill. It turned out to be the intern from Health who was getting screwed, in more ways than one, by a Senior Civil Servant who subsequently promised he would "never, ever, ever even so much as blink in her direction again - and could you please put down the staple gun, Jamie?" Malcolm carefully established that Jamie was indeed working out of a sense of loyalty to the Party and not to his dick, and grudgingly inwardly forgave Jamie, who didn't know about any of Malcolm's paranoia anyway.

With hindsight, that should've been the first inkling that jealousy has a way of undoing the neat wrappings of composure.

 


	2. Proved the points that I needed proving

"…and that is why we can - and will - forge better communities."

The applause rang out, feet were stamped, and Nicola Murray left the stage beaming and narrowly missing the cables that snaked across her exit. Malcolm Tucker, arms folded across the front of his neat grey suit jacket, visibly relaxed his shoulders and leaned back against the wall.

"Right, that's it," he said. "She's off the stage without making a tit of herself. Just the PM's call-to-arms to go and then it's drinkies time before they all fuck off. Thank fuck party conferences are only an annual thing."

The figure in the less-than-neat jacket beside him glanced up. "Aye, this town's like a fucking waiting list for a hip replacement. Why do people move to the seaside to die? You wouldnae catch me on a mobility scooter on the pier."

"As if you'll make it past fifty," Malcolm scoffed. He pushed himself away from the wall and slid his phone out of his pocket. "C'mon, Jamie, I need to wheel the boss out and you need to corral the press. See you at the reception." 

Two hours and one incredibly strong (of course it was strong, Malcolm had seen to that) speech from the PM later and the reception was in full swing. Nicola, mixing her adrenalin rush with wine, was effusively bombarding anyone who would listen about the importance of her newly-announced community initiative, while a hovering Ollie pulled faces behind her every time she used the phrase "going forward". 

Malcolm was holding court with the small handful of journalists reckless enough to be within earshot. He was finishing his third glass of champagne - his annual participation in the social side of socialism. Jamie barrelled up to the group with a fresh glass in one hand, passing it casually to Malcolm before swigging from the bottle of beer in his other. His arrival scared off the weaker members of the press pack who scurried away with hunted expressions. Malcolm, sipping from glass number four, tried not to think about Jamie's proprietary manner. Or rather, he wouldn't allow himself the luxury of thinking about it just now. Or about the way Jamie looked when he'd joined Malcolm in the hotel restaurant this morning, eyes bright and blue and curls still damp from the shower, clean white shirt already creased and buttoned incorrectly. Malcolm, on his second coffee (no food; food did not happen in Malcolm's mornings), had simply closed his eyes for a fraction of a second then opened them and said "shirt needs fixing. I'm off." He noted that the memory hadn't faded twelve hours later.

"Sláinte!" said Jamie, clanking his bottle of beer a little too hard against Malcolm's glass. Malcolm nodded in reply, lifting his glass slightly, and watched as Ben Swain's lumbering form swayed towards them. 

"Well, if it isn't Sheriff Fatman," shouted Jamie with a certain amount of anticipatory glee at the chance to torment yet another politician. 

"Jamie. Malcolm." Ben grabbed a handful of crisps from the nearby table. "Who do I have to sleep with to get a drink round here?"

"They give you the drinks to avoid that, y'know," replied Jamie, "but if you fancy your chances with the natives I hear the bingo halls are open 24 hours."

"No thank you, Jamie, I'll pass on that. Leave the rave before the grave to Glenn Cullen. Oh, Malcolm - Julius is looking for you. Something about a select committee?"

Malcolm grimaced. "He was supposed to have that sorted last week. He's about as useful as Anne Frank's drumkit. Right, I'd better go."

Ben scooped up more crisps from the bowl then pointed to the door. "He's just outside, you can catch him if you hurry."

"No, I mean I'd better go before the baldy fucker finds me. Try not to eat all the pot pourri, eh Ben?"

 

Half an hour later and Malcolm was still trying to exit the room without encountering Julius. He'd found himself ambushed by an increasingly maudlin Nicola who had moved from glorious plans to look-how-far-we've-come and on into is-it-all-really-worth-it-I-mean-really. 

Malcolm tried to concentrate but he was acutely aware of Jamie on the far side of the room leaning closer and closer to the Westminster correspondent for the Standard who was responding by playing with her hair and giggling in an increasingly irritating (to Malcolm) manner. 

"Malcolm," Nicola was saying, her words beginning to slur, "I suppose, deep down, I must love James. I mean, he has moments where he's not all bad…"

"Hm?" he replied, straining to see where Jamie's right hand was; there, right there - the little fucker was touching that bit of hack fluff on the arm-

"There's just so much pressure to stay, and I suppose a bit of me still loves him, and that's a good thing, isn't it…?"

"Nicola," he barked, switching attention to the conversation he was in. "Just because you've married a twat doesn't mean everyone else should aim for the lowest common denominator." He drained his drink. Nicola flushed angrily and turned away from him, slamming her glass down on the nearest table as she left.

From across the room came the sound of loud laughter and accompanying giggles. Malcolm breathed in sharply and then exhaled in the six strides it took him to reach the other side. 

"Jamie." His voice was alarmingly quiet. "A word."

He swore the little fucker was smirking while he followed him into the corridor. 

"S'up, Malc?"

"Not here." The tone terse, a hand propelling Jamie onwards. "Outside." He pushed the bar on the fire exit door, not caring if it was alarmed. (It wasn't; and it couldn't have been even half as alarmed as Malcolm himself would've been had he stopped to examine his own behaviour.)

They stepped into the night chill of a narrow yard, the hotel bins filling the space in the darkness. 

"Is there a problem, boss?" The sarky tone did nothing to allay Malcolm's anger.

"Don't fucking wisecrack me, son. Yeah, there's a fucking problem. You're the fucking problem. Fraternising with the enemy now, are we? There'll be no fucking pillowtalk on my watch. You want to screw some vapid bint you pick up at a conference, try to keep it in-house, eh? How the actual fuck would you explain that to the press office: 'Oh, sorry I'm late for work, I was up to my balls in the Daily Mail, who, by the way, know all about the PM's fetish for dressing in tights and a gimp mask'."

"The Standard. Not the Mail."

Malcolm stepped forward and Jamie, fearless as he was, thought for a minute that the lanky cunt was actually going to swing for him.

"Don't. Fucking. Push. Me." he hissed.

"Are you jealous, Malc?" asked Jamie softly.

Malcolm gave a start. "What?" he said, his heart beating faster.

"It's just, well, you seem more than a tiny bit upset about a wee bit of flirting which, by the way, was about me getting her on side because fuck knows we need all the help we can get. And you getting your knickers in a twist like a jealous wee schoolgirl: you were after her, were you? Did I cockblock you? Is that it?"

Malcolm didn't know whether to be relieved or insulted. He decided not to decide and instead raised his voice. "Of course I'm not fucking interested in her."

"Good," said Jamie. And lunged at him.

Malcolm's initial reaction, honed from a youth spent frequenting the less salubrious pubs of Glasgow, was to dive to the side, which he might well have achieved had it not been for the commercial waste bin blocking his way. He barely had time to brace himself for the crack of a skull - expected the shock of pain any second - but, instead, a greater shock as Jamie MacDonald's mouth crushed his and he reflexively raised his arms and found himself wrapping them around the shoulders of a drunken feral Scot. Jamie, meanwhile, his breathing heavy, had managed to push Malcolm against the opposite wall, grabbing a fistful of lapel as he went, his teeth scraping Malcolm's bottom lip and Malcolm's tongue meeting his, sending a tremor through both their bodies. Dimly, Malcolm recognised that this could be termed a Compromising Situation and as such was a very, very bad idea, but the tiny part of his mind that was capable of processing this was overridden and betrayed by his body that had simultaneously gone weak (legs) and rock-fucking-hard. He slid his hands up to Jamie's neck, linking his elegant fingers at the nape, pulling the younger man in further to the embrace.

Then his phone rang.

They both stopped dead at the harsh interruption of the ringtone, faces millimetres apart, breath mingling in the chill night air. 

"Fuck," said Malcolm.

"Aye, well, I was working up to that," muttered Jamie. 

Malcolm, his gaze never leaving Jamie's, fished in his pocket until his fingers found his mobile and he pulled it from his jacket. He glanced at the screen, then answered. "Ollie," he said, in a voice more hoarse than he expected. "This had better be a life or death situation, and by that I mean your death if you don't have good reason to phone me at this particular time."

Jamie could hear frantic garbling from the handset.

"She fucking WHAT?" roared Malcolm, and Jamie took a step back. "Keep her there. No. No, get her to her room. Don't fucking leave. I'll be there in five." He hung up, exhaling sharply, and spoke to Jamie. "Nicola Murray has just told your hackit hack friend about the folder that got left on the train last week - the fucking story I spent an entire day quashing so there wasn't a whisper of it outside of fucking DoSAC." His jaw was clenched. "I'm going to her hotel room to tear her limb from fucking limb. Find me a good lawyer to get me off the murder charge. Better still, find that fucking London underground litter journo and warn her to back the fuck off before I give in to the urge to caress her round the throat 'til she stops struggling." He paused. Then in a gentler voice: "We'll talk later, yeah?" And he was gone.

 

The next hours passed in a blur of raised voices and ringtones until, at 3am, a haggard Malcolm pulled the door closed on a tearful Nicola, an eye-rolling Ollie and a conciliatory Glenn. The earlier champagne had turned to a dull headache, and the culmination of weeks of pre-conference effort were choosing that particular moment to exert their effect. He slid his keycard into his room's lock and swung open the door, letting it slam shut behind him as he rubbed his hand over his face. He shrugged off his jacket, kicked off his shoes and lay on the bed, head rushing with thoughts that he couldn't pin down. The final of those, before exhaustion engulfed him, was of a dark alleyway and the taste of Jamie MacDonald.


	3. But I'm steady thinking, my way is clear

"Sam, that's fine, you can go on home."

Malcolm stood leaning against the doorway of his office, his hands in his pockets, watching Jamie move away from Sam's desk at the sound of his voice. Sam, expression as discreet and as inscrutable as ever, smiled a goodbye and swung her bag up over her arm as she left. Malcolm jerked his head towards his office door. "Come in."

He didn't sit. Instead, they stood facing each other, a few steps apart.

"Right then, Malc. Talk."

"Jamie, this isn't really the best place…"

"You have a better place in mind? I've been waiting to talk to you for two days now, so fucking talk."

"What do you want me to say? We'd been drinking. It was mistake, of course it was a mistake - look, maybe we just forget it happened-"

"I'm a mistake?"

"That's not what I said."

"It fucking is. I just heard you. Fuck you. I'm not gonna be anyone's mistake."

"I didn't mean that! Christ. Why the fuck are we even discussing this? It was just- I don't know what it was… We work together, for fucks sake. If anyone found out about it - Christ on a fucking trapeze, that'd be the shit-flavoured icing on the cake of fucking crap that is my life!"

"Malc?"

The older man looked back at him.

"Malc, stop the teen drama bullshit."

Jamie moved a step closer.

"I've seen the way you look at me- no, don't fucking turn on the scorn at that! You think I haven't clocked you staring at my arse-"

"I have never stared at your arse!"

"Ach, stop actin' it. Maybe not stared, but you've sure as hell been looking."

Malcolm shifted uncomfortably. Jamie took another step closer and, to his credit, Malcolm kept his ground.

"It isnae a big deal. You like me, I get it." (A snort from Malcolm to counter the arrogance.) "You hadnae had enough to get ya pished, pal. And you didn't…" (a step closer) "…exactly…" (an inch more) "…push me away." Jamie's face was now just a fraction from Malcolm's. Neither man moved. Jamie's eyes flicked towards Malcolm's twist of a mouth then back to meet his gaze. He spread his palm across the pressed, white fabric of Malcolm's shirt front and leaned up, slowly, to brush his lips along the edge of Malcolm's jaw. Malcolm made a noise that was half-sigh, half-whimper and Jamie trailed his mouth up and across so that they met in a pliant kiss that Malcolm swore should not be possible from someone who looked like he'd been scribbled into existence.

When they broke apart it was Malcolm who spoke first. "If - _IF_ \- we're doing this we do not do this here. My house, 9 o'clock. If anyone asks it's a strategy meeting."

 

 

By 8.45pm Malcolm was on his second glass of whisky (Japanese: turned out they could make everything, single malts included). This was new, this nervousness. This was what it felt like to not have control. There was a reason Malcolm Tucker didn't go on roller coasters.

At 8.59pm, nerves stretched to near snapping point (not that he'd ever admit it, including to himself), he heard a taxi door slam. There it was, the noise of the gate swinging closed and footsteps on the path, and he opened the door at the point where Jamie MacDonald stood ready to knock, the drizzle beading both his hair and the heavy woollen jumper that he wore. Wordlessly, Malcolm stood back, holding the door open so that Jamie could walk through and then, on closing it, turned to an equally silent Jamie who placed his hand on Malcolm's hip and pulled him towards him.

Jamie paused. "Don't look so fucking terrified, you cunt."

Malcolm, indignant, raised his head and cast a sidelong look back at him. "You think I'm terrified of you? Ahm not terrified of you. Fer chrissake, it'd be hard to be terrified of a man dressed as a sheep."

Jamie pulled the damp woollen jumper over his curls and let it drop to the floor. "Sheep shagger, are ya?"

"Who said anything about shagging?"

"Why'm I here, then?"

"As I said: strategy meeting."

"Well, my strategy's to have you begging for me."

A smirk from Malcolm. "Take a lesson from your superiors, kiddo. I do the strategy. You do what I say."

Jamie moved to grab him but Malcolm caught his wrist (Christ, the little fucker was strong) and swung him round so that it was Jamie against the door. He trapped him there, an arm above either shoulder and a knee pressed between his thighs, and then he pushed his hips forward, meeting Jamie's, who moaned and tried to move against Malcolm, doing what he could to generate the friction he craved.

"Who'll be doing the begging?" asked Malcolm innocently, and sank to his knees in front of Jamie, whose expression was now at least fifty per cent eyes. Malcolm, his deft fingers working the buckle on Jamie's belt, was thanking the god he didn't believe in who had evidently finally recognised Malcolm's abstemious lifestyle (well, mostly abstemious) and had decided to reward him by handing him his carnal desires in the form of one volatile and (Malcolm's long fingers closed around hot, solid flesh) perfectly-formed Scottish whirlwind.

Jamie, meanwhile, was clawing his fingers through Malcolm's hair while saying "jesus" so many times that Malcolm was wondering if the wee psycho really had left his bead-rattling days behind him. When the tip of Malcolm's tongue finally lit on Jamie's cock, the invocations came out in uppercase. Malcolm, pausing to look up through heavy-lidded eyes, was delighted to see Jamie biting his lip so hard that the colour was draining from it. He slid his hands round to grab Jamie's arse and drew him forward and into the heat of his mouth. This was the undoing of Jamie who cried out and pushed Malcolm off him and back "-wait, not like this, not here". He clutched at him, pulling him upwards, clumsily hauling him into an embrace that was more about hunger than finesse. Malcolm cupped his hands around Jamie's jaw and returned the kiss, his ragged breathing audible. "Upstairs, c'mon".

The stairs took an age to climb. Later, Malcolm could barely recollect how they got from the hallway to the bedroom, or how their clothes came to lie where they were discarded. He remembered snapshots of their progress - Jamie's fingers kneading his skin; the taste of sweat and salt on his lips; muffled exhortations increasing in urgency.

He pushed Jamie back on to the covers of the neatly-made bed, biting his ear, which earned him a hiss and the sharp scrape of fingernails down his back. Jamie, strategy long abandoned in favour of letting Malcolm do whatever the fuck he pleased, was trying to thrust upwards as best he could, raising his hips off the bed in a desperate attempt at contact. Malcolm repaid him by leaning forward, thumb sliding over Jamie's nipple, followed second later by the scrape of teeth. Jamie yowled, grabbing at him and managing to spin them both over so that Malcolm found himself pinned to an expanse of Egyptian cotton by ten and a half stone of dangerously-aroused sexual fury. He opened his mouth to say "hey-" or maybe it just a guttural "Jamie-" but the words never left his throat because Jamie took that precise moment to run his hand along the inside of Malcolm's thigh before circling his fingers around the shaft of his cock. It was Malcolm's turn to thrust and Jamie let him, watching him in a mix of awe and glee. Then, their gaze unwavering, he pressed just so, causing Malcolm's legs to splay and his back to arch as Jamie slowly pushed a finger inside him.

Malcolm inhaled sharply and Jamie paused, staring at him half-hungrily, half-fearfully. Malcolm's gaze flickered to the bedside table and Jamie turned his head to see the bottle of lube. Mere seconds later (although it felt like endless fucking hours to Malcolm - what the fuck was taking the fucker so fucking long?) Jamie was sliding a finger back in again, listening to the moans Malcolm made as he flexed his hand. Malcolm, focusing long enough to manage some form of coordination, reached for Jamie's cock as they found their rhythm - Jamie moving over him, the weight of Jamie's leg between his thighs, skin against skin; hot, quickening movement. Every nerve of Malcolm's welcomed this. He felt the pressure mounting, a feeling of sheer physical joy, and as the release tore through him he gasped "oh christ" as his body shuddered around Jamie's. No rest though, because Jamie - _Jamie_ \- was there and it was his turn, and Malcolm lifted his face to kiss him, his tongue moving at the same speed as Jamie's thrusts. The hand unoccupied with Jamie's cock dug into Jamie's hip and as Malcolm gripped him harder he heard him falter, and with a cry Jamie came, his breathing torn in a series of jerks, and he fell forward on to Malcolm who pulled him close, brushed his lips across his shoulder, and - in a sight rarely witnessed - smiled.


End file.
